


Winter Hymnal

by bimmykimmy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Gen, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimmykimmy/pseuds/bimmykimmy
Summary: Months have passed since New York, winter is in full swing, and Newt finds that he has an unexpected visitor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i.e the moment in which Newt decides he is Credence's new mum.

 

\--

 _"When winter winds are piercing chill,_  
_And through the hawthorn blows the gale,_  
_With solemn feet I tread the hill,_  
_That overbrows the lonely vale."_

_\-- woods in winter, Longfellow_

\--

 

             If he’s really quiet, he can hear the soft pattering of the flakes landing all around him. The crisp cold air bites at his skin, but he doesn’t mind. What lies around him makes up for any feeling he’s lost in his nose and/or toes at this point. Puffy clouds of breath crystallize in the air with each passing breath as he stands at the edge of the forest. It’s been such a long time since he’s taken time to himself like this. Of course, he’s usually alone nowadays, but he always had his beasts. They are as good company as any.

            Now, however, he simply takes a moment to listen. In the distance a single crow calls out into the desolate air; its sharp voice carrying with an ever-softening echo against the snow crested treetops.

            Looking up he can see the snow, tuffs of flakes packed together like tiny cotton balls fluttering to the ground. They fall against his face, tiny kisses from the sky, and melt away just as gently.

            A shiver runs through his spine and he knows it’s high time he made his way back to the cottage.

            “Thank you,” he says with a small grin. “It’s a lovely snow, I’ll tell you what.” Only a peaceful silence from the tree line answers back; the muted taps of the fat flakes calling his attention once more.

            Another smile, inwardly this time, to himself, and he’s hunching his shoulders to nuzzle into his scarf as he makes his way back to his cottage. His footsteps are still there, though fading fast as they fill with the freshly fallen snow; indents of his journey washing away in the sea of white. Newt loves the sound snow makes under his boots. The soft crunching is impactful, yet the soft new layer flutters with each trudging step he takes.

            The snow that peppers his sandy hair falls to the floor as he brushes his hand quickly through it once or twice. His jacket too, covered in white, quickly feels cold and damp as the snow melts upon entering his cottage.

            “Cold one today,” he says to the house, leaning over to unlace his boots. “In all likelihood I won’t be traveling on foot for a while.”

            As he straightens up, his chilled hand pulls his wand from his coat pocket. The wood feels cold against his slender fingers, but familiar nonetheless. “Incendio,” he whispers. With a flick of his wrist in the doorway as he passes through the foyer, a small orange light kindles in his fireplace, slowly growing to a healthy size to warm the room. 

            His cottage is always quiet, which is why he rarely spends too often in it. Usually he likes to spend time with his beasts; caring for them, tending to their needs. It gives him something to take his mind off of…well, other things.

            The afternoon is uneventful too. He spends quite a bit of time rearranging his bookshelf. First alphabetical, then categorical, then by color. Eventually it ends up the disheveled mess that it was before, to which Newt feels entirely content with. He knows where everything is. It’s not like there’s anyone else who’d get confused by his organization.

            Pickett accompanies him at dinner. Nothing special. Beans and a slice of cold bread. Newt tells him all about the pretty snow until it’s time for bed.

            He finds it rather hard to fall asleep that night. Something keeps drawing his attention to his bedroom window.

            “Must be the snow,” he mutters as he turns in his bed, pulling his legs in to his chest. Sleep eventually comes.

 

\--

 

            Waking up the next morning, Newt quickly realizes that the snow had never quit. In fact, somewhere along the midnight hour, it had amped up the volume. The window shows him a white-washed world, one quite beautiful but not too inviting. The chill had seeped in through the walls and cracks last night, and the warmness of his bed makes it rather difficult to get up. He does though, eventually, dragging his quilt along with him.

            A glance in the mirror shows him how his hair had also made a plan of its own, sticking up and out in all sorts of ridiculous ways. The tight curls giving it a look akin to a bird’s nest. He laughs at the thought and continues his way into the kitchen.

            He shuffles to the countertop, poking his hands out from their quilted shield to open a jar of jam. The glass feels just as chilly as the air. Newt wonders if he should try and search the house for drafts of air that could be sneaking in. The morning continues on exactly in this manner. Cold, rehearsed movements until he eventually does something about his unruly hair.

 

\--

 

            He’s at his typewriter, sifting through the piles of endless documentation of magical creatures when his restlessness finally gets the better of him. He stands up, pushing away his chair as he paces; hand on his hip and teeth gnawing at a thumbnail.

            The large radius window that opens out to the front of his house draws his attention once again to the winterland. Large flakes continue still, falling heavily to the already blanketed ground.  Newt steps closer to the window and stares out. The horizon line is entirely white, speckled here and there from whatever plant life happens to break through the crest of snow.

            That’s when he sees the dark figure against the white.

            Newt’s eyebrows rise for only a moment, surprised but not too startled. He squints, leaning closer the window.

            The figure stands frozen in the snow, shoulders hunched and hands buried in pockets.

            Newt lives far enough from any towns that having visitors is quite the rarity.

            It’s when he sees that dreadfully familiar wisp of black smoke briefly surround the figure that Newt rushes to his front door. He steps into his boots, no bother to lace them, and stomps out into the snowy outdoors.

            The burst of cold aches his very bones, but it does very little to hinder him in his newly set motive. At the very most, his wool sweater does enough to keep his skin from stinging too much.

            Snow falls around him as he trudges his way through, steadily getting closer to the figure. Newt knows he won’t run, but he approaches cautiously regardless.

            Those solemn brown eyes watch with unwavering concentration as Newt stops just an arm’s reach from him.

            “Credence,” Newt says in a breath of air, folding his arms across his chest to save whatever body heat is left.

            Credence looks completely frozen, obsidian hair speckled with puffy flakes of snow, pale skin painted a blotchy pink. Windblown tears have frozen onto the peaks of his cheekbones and Newt shivers in empathy.

            “Well, come on then,” he reaches around and touches Credence on the shoulder ever so gently before turning back around to head toward his cottage.

            Those same brown eyes widen at the invitation. He hesitates barely a distinguishable moment before following Newt, stepping in his footprints one after the other.

 

\--

 

            Credence stands just beyond the threshold of the front door, shoulders still hunched and hands still buried away in his coat pockets.

            Newt brushes as much snow as he can out of his own hair before glancing over at his chilled guest.

            “You can take your wet coat off, if you like,” he says softly, gaining Credence’s gaze for only a moment before he abashedly looks down at his frozen boots.

            “I’ll start a fire,” Newt offers and waits for a moment. They stand there in silence, Credence obviously mulling over countless thoughts before actually moving. He looks up again to find Newt patiently smiling; a sheepish blush creeps up on his face. He takes his hands out of his pockets first, delicately bringing his stiffly frozen fingers to the buttons of his jacket. His eyes glance up at Newt again.

            Newt offers a small nod of encouragement before turning back toward the foyer, making his way into the small living room.

            Credence takes off his wet clothes in careful movements and hangs his coat on the rack next to Newt’s. He considers it a moment, glancing over his shoulder. His hand comes up to the deep blue fabric and gently traces the hem. His eyes then come to the black and yellow scarf hanging on its own peg. He doesn’t touch it.

            Newt pokes the fire and watches the small embers glow grow stronger. The sparks hop as he jabs the poker in harder. Eventually, the fire starts up again and he leans over on his hands to blow at it until it catches the new log.

            “Mr. Scamander,” Credence’s voice softly interrupts his fire starting endeavors, to which Newt gladly turns away from.

            It is odd having Credence here, showing up out of the blue. Newt has plenty of questions: namely, how on earth is he alive? But none of them seem to surface. Upon seeing the young man, Newt simply acted on impulse. Maybe he still is.

            “Come,” Newt says as he stands. “Sit closer to the fire. You look positively frozen.”

            Credence listens, stepping into the living room with holey wool socks. Newt looks him up and down as discreetly as possible. Though with how perceptive the young man is, he doubts anything ever goes unnoticed by him. Newt wonders how long he’s been traveling. It’s been quite a while since the incident in New York. He had taken to finishing his anthology of beasts and fell into a bubble of his own space; the outside world forgotten to him.

            Credence here now brought Newt back into reality with a heaviness he’d long since buried.

            “There you are,” Newt says as Credence sits on the maroon chaise lounge. He kneels down in front of him; a hand coming to rest on top of Credence’s folded ones. He gives it a small squeeze. “Warm up real nice, alright?”

            “Alright,” Credence repeats quietly. He glances down at Newt’s touch, lip twitching.

 

\--

 

            The fire does an efficient job of warming up the living room as well as Credence. The color of his skin, albeit pale, finally started to seem lest frost bitten. Newt had taken his stepping stool near his bookcase and pulled it up next to the fire. They both sat there in a comfortable silence; though, it’s definitely filled with the thousands of unspoken questions. They both can feel it, but neither takes the initiative. They simply sit; letting the fire warm them as the snow slowly barricades them in.

            “How about some coffee?” Newt asks after a while. Credence looks up at him with an unreadable expression. Newt raises his eyebrows. “No?” He licks his bottom lip a moment, thinking. The radius window near the front has a steadily building bottom frame of snow—he’d have to brush that off eventually. He gasps suddenly, turning back toward Credence who’s wide eyes look at him curiously.

 “Hot chocolate then?”

            Credence’s lips part, voice crackling a bit and he clears his throat. He tries again, “Yes, thank you.”

            “Perfect,” Newt says with a slap to his own thigh and stands up. “Nothing like a cup of hot cocoa to fight that winter chill, right?”

            Credence’s expression continues to be unreadable, but Newt figures he’ll come around eventually. He hasn’t traveled miraculously all the way to England just to drink hot chocolate and to sit in silence. Newt is willing to wait. He’ll give him all the time he needs.

            “R-right!” Credence manages to blurt out just as Newt leaves the living room. He grimaces at his hesitance, glancing down at his warmed hands in his lap.

            Only a few moments pass before he hears the boisterous clanking of pots and pans from the kitchen. He stands and stares at the fire for a moment, contemplating, before turning and heading into the kitchen.

            The room is just as small as the living room and quite messy, though well-lived in. Credence glances at an open book on the rustic looking table before hearing a startled “Oh!”

            He looks up to see Newt with a surprised expression, but before Credence can panic, it quickly melts into a soft smile. Newt gestures towards an empty chair.

            “It’ll only be a minute.”

            “Thank you…” Credence mumbles and takes a seat. He waits patiently, picking at the dried skin on his knuckles. His gaze lifts up after a moment, watching Newt light the stove and pour some milk into the gunmetal pot. His interest is piqued when Newt crouches down, taking out a small can of cocoa powder and placing it on the counter.

“You won’t use…” Credence leads with a trailing question, silence overcoming his boldness. He feels himself flush.

            Newt turns his shoulders, hands busying themselves with scooping cocoa into the pot.

            “What?” he asks with a smile.

            Credence’s eyes fall from his. His jaw sets and he squirms just enough that the old oaken chair he sits in creaks. Newt can still see the pink flush that the wintery chill had left on his face. The small shrug he gives in Newt’s direction is more than enough.

            “What, magic?” he asks again, the smile growing wider. With a hesitant nod of affirmation from Credence, Newt turns again to finish scooping the cocoa. The milk is already boiling and he clicks his tongue. The teaspoon just takes too long, so he grabs another, larger silver spoon out of the sink. It looks clean enough. He can’t hold back a small chuckle. “I suppose you Americans are quite fond of using magic for just about everything.” He finally gets enough cocoa in—probably way too much, but you know he’s trying. The cinnamon spice mixed in with it will hardly go unnoticed to say the least.

            Credence watches his back carefully, with a studying eye that’s grown used to sitting, waiting.

            “Then again,” Newt adds suddenly after stirring the chocolatey mix a little. He looks over his shoulder at Credence, and movement startles him to look down, away from Newt once again. “One could probably say the same for all of England. I don’t get out too much, you see? Well…out with _people_. After I....left Hogwarts, it’s quite easy to lose track of the magic community when you dedicate your life to writing.”

            “You’re writing?” Credence asks hesitantly.

            “Categorizing, really.” Newt looks back at the chocolate, stirring it a few more times before extinguishing the flame and grabbing two cups. “It’s why I was in New York.”

            The mention of it creates a moment of heavy air. Neither speaks a word but the feeling alone is enough to establish it is quite the sore subject. Newt pours them their drinks and turns.

            “Fantastic Beasts and so on and so forth,” he shrugs. “The title isn’t important.”

            Credence looks up at Newt when he hands him the steaming cup of cocoa. “Thank you,” He takes it with both hands, cradling it like a precious gift. The hot stream floats up, caressing his skin as he brings it close to his lips.

            Newt sits across from him, placing his own cup down on the rickety table and smiles.

            They sit in silence for what isn’t the last time, yet it is comfortable, peaceful even. A plethora of necessary conversation still needed to be had, but neither seems too keen to rush.

 

\--

 

            Warm drinks, warm food, and pleasant time spent are how the rest of the day goes. Credence doesn’t say much, unsurprisingly, though he _does_ let Newt know that he’d been looking for him for a while. Since the incident in New York, he had been wandering aimlessly. Newt understands he’s had a tremendous loss in Percival Graves, or what he thought was him at least.  The poor young man must’ve felt completely lost, especially since the bulk of the crowd assumed he had perished. Newt Scamander included.

            He glances over his shoulder at the very much alive Credence, who sits bundled up in a blanket near the fire. Newt is at his typewriter now. Credence had been okay with letting him get back to his work. The young man is quite the patient fellow; certainly patient enough to spend the first twenty-odd years of his life lying in wait for a lifeline.

_Graves’ impersonator had given him that lifeline._

            Newt’s heart sinks at the thought. He isn’t entirely sure what he can do for Credence, but he’s come to Newt now. He is under Newt’s care, and that’s the way it’s going to be. He smiles softly as Credence shifts a little on the chaise lounge, snuggling up in the blanket.

            “Do you want to listen to some music?” Newt asks, to which Credence peeks over the blanket curiously. Newt stands and walks over to the gramophone sitting in the corner. The needle crackles at first, but the music begins sweetly. It fills the air with acoustic warmth just as the fire continues to keep the wintery cold at bay.

            “She’s got a lovely voice, hasn’t she?” he asks.

            Newt feels his breath catch when something close to, but not quite yet, a smile tugs at Credence’s lips. He shrugs his shoulders up, pulling the blanket over himself more and sinking lower onto the cushion.

            His response is a simple contented sigh as his eyes stare into the crackling fire. They gleam brightly, life projected back into them. So much is behind that steady gaze. Newt wants to help piece it all together for Credence. He cannot deny the pull he has to the young man. Maybe it’s pity, but maybe it’s something more. Newt cannot determine which. Regardless of the unintelligibility of his own emotions, he knows one thing for certain.

            Credence Barebone is vulnerable and unique. Who better to take care of the vulnerable and unique than Newt Scamander?

 

\--

 

           The sun sinks over the white horizon. With the sky dyed a soft purple, the snow finally stopped and all is still.

            Newt leans back in his chair, stretching and groaning as he feels his back give a little pop. When he leans forward again, he hears another. This time it’s the fire; embers on their last life as they glow a steady red and orange amongst the black soot.

            The gramophone had stopped long ago, it’s grainy noise filling the air in repetitive loops.

            Newt rounds the chaise lounge and pulls the needle. He turns towards Credence, ready to ask if he’d like some soup. That’s about all he has for dinner at the moment, and he isn’t the best cook, but it would do.

            Credence’s soft breath leaves his parted lips slowly as he slumbers. His head had lulled to the side at one point, falling into a deep sleep. Newt notes that this is probably the first decent sleep he’s gotten in months. He could hardly bear the thought of waking him.

            Instead, he merely sits down with crossed legs near the fire. Its warmth is subdued but omitting nonetheless.

            He watches Credence sleep. The young man’s expression is so close to peacefulness that it’s almost painful to know that whatever lies within his breast is anything but at peace. Newt pulls his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees as he turns his gaze toward the slowly dying fire.

 

\--

 

            Credence wakes up with a small whimper, night terrors haunting his unconscious. He is quiet though, quiet enough not to wake the sleeping wizard sitting curled up on the floor. Credence lets out a steadying breath, placing a trembling hand to his heart as he grounds himself. He’s safe. He’s in England. He’s found Mr. Newt Scamander, who has yet to throw him out. He glances over at the sleeping man and warmth spreads in his chest. Maybe he has no intention of throwing him out.

            The fire is just a simple orange glow now, casting just enough light to see. Credence sits for some time, listening to the silence that for once feels…calm, safe. There’s so much uncertainty in his life; this second life he’s been given for what reason he cannot say.

            Through all that uncertainty though, there is one thing that he cannot and will not deny.

            Credence shifts from his spot on the cushion, scooting off the chaise lounge and takes a few steps over to Newt. In one smooth movement, he sweeps the blanket off of his own shoulders and wraps it around his caretaker.

            Mr. Newt Scamander is a good man.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written entirely because I refuse to finish my final film music essay.  
> Also shoutout to my amazing friend, Hal, who's writing continues to both inspire me and keep in me in awe.


End file.
